UNLESS you’ve been shrouded in a burka with a cave for a crib, you know that “The Sopranos” is coming back this Sunday night.

And it’s become so controversial that even writing about it has become as controversial as writing for it.

For starters, how do you write a review of a show like this without giving up the juicy bits? Tell anything, and the readers call you a rat.

But no matter what you write, there’s no winning, especially if you happen to be an Italian-American critic. If I say I love “The Sopranos,” the Italian anti-defamation groups are all over me like a dropped sfogliatella (svoyadel, to you and me). I’ve never understood how anyone can mistake great art for bad Italian stereotyping.

So, inevitably, I end up having to defend myself on TV, where I’m treated like a member of al Qaeda – or a button man for the mob. Once and for all, I love this show with all my heart and brain, and this season is better than ever.

Usually I round up a crew of guys who don’t seem to have regular jobs to watch the show with me, so I can get an, er, expert opinion.

But when the four advanced episodes arrived, I was so excited, I couldn’t wait for Fat Frankie and the boys from Mulberry Street to show up – even though they usually bring the pastry.

My family and I popped the videos in and had a four-hour marathon. Without giving anything away (well, not much), I can tell you that Tony (James Gandolfini) is losing his grip not only on his family but on his family, if you know what I mean.

Even Carmela (Edie Falco) is discontent, and, well, I would be nervous if I were Tony. Actually I’d be even more nervous if I were Carmela.

When the season opens, Paulie Walnuts (Tony Sirico) has already been pinched for a gun that was found in his car when he went to visit Stubenville, Ohio, the birthplace of Dean Martin. The gun just happened to be attached to an unsolved murder. He’s doing time, and unfortunately, nobody’s visiting his dear old mom.

Meanwhile, Christopher (Michael Imperioli) is shooting white powder through between his toes, and I’m not talking Dr. Scholl’s. Uncle Junior (Dominic Chianese) has been nailed and is awaiting a trial that’s running him dry.

Meadow (Jamie-Lynn Sigler) is rebelling, and A.J. (Robert Iler) is hardly seen and definitely not heard. Janice (Aida Turturro) is worse than ever, and you won’t believe whom she’s bedding down now. Of course, sleeping with Janice is like sleeping with the fishes. Before you have to. Silvio (Steven Van Zandt) feels slighted, and Johnny Sack (Vincent Curatola) is getting scarier and scarier, and especially so if you happen to make fun of his tons-of-fun wife. (Oops, sorry, Johnny, nothing personal.)

Mostly, you won’t believe what happens to Adriana – nor what she does by mistake to the head fed (Frank Pellegrino). What’s almost worse is that Furio (Frederico Castelluccio) may unfortunately be gripped by something bigger than himself, and it’s very, very (did I mention very?) dangerous.

In fact, either one of those scenarios can bring down the family. So, yes, the show is perfect this year. Sorry, but it is despite what the anti-defamation crowd says – and will say to me about 14 minutes from now.

But you know what? If you are angry with the way Italians are depicted, I suggest you tune instead to any prime-time network show. In case you haven’t noticed, the stupid kid is always the Italian kid, the fat, ignorant woman is usually the token Italian, and doctors, lawyers, and even the accountants with Italian last names are inevitably crooked, evil or misguided.

That subtle hatred is a lot more pervasive than the brilliant writing, acting and casting of “The Sopranos.” As an Italian-American, I am thrilled that a show like this is an Italian-American effort for the most part.

Hey, everybody loves Shakespeare, and I heard a rumor that the ancient Romans were Italian. I wonder if Will was accused of stereotyping.